


Enough, Almost

by Aramley



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-29
Updated: 2009-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-17 19:55:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aramley/pseuds/Aramley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Roger, Rafa, and a hotel room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enough, Almost

There's a shivery thrill of anticipation in Roger's stomach as he moves through the hotel lobby. Three floors up, Rafa is waiting for him, and Roger has to fight to keep his pace slow and steady. He mustn't look as if he's rushing - that would rouse suspicion, and already people are giving him sideways glances. He's mostly used to it, the attention that comes with being Roger Federer, but right now it's hard to shrug off the sneaking suspicion that they are watching him because they know where he's going, and why. He tries to keep himself looking casual, hands slipped carelessly into the pockets of his jeans and the set of his shoulders loose and natural, not hunched in like he's tucking a secret away inside.

So he's cool. He's calm. He shares an elevator up with a woman who turns to him, shyly, and asks please, if it isn't too much trouble, could he sign an autograph for her son, who's obsessed with tennis? And when he takes the pen, his hands are steady, and the flourishes of his signature are smooth and assured. The woman beams at him, and she giggles nervously as she stammers her thank yous, and then she gets off at the second floor, leaving Roger a few moments of solitude in which to work out some of his nerves by fussing at his hair before the elevator doors sweep open at the third floor, Rafa's floor, and Roger's stomach twists.

For a moment as he stands outside Rafa's room, poised to knock, Roger suffers a spasm of panic. There's a part of him that can't believe what he's about to do, that sits separate from the rest of him and watches, incredulous and disapproving. He hasn't knocked the door yet, it tells him, he can still leave, if he wants. He can ride the elevator back down, retrace his steps through the hotel lobby, follow the trail that leads backwards from here to the other, safer life that centres around Mirka, who is back in their shared hotel room right now, waiting for him. He could do that, and yet somehow he can't. He knocks, and the sound seems oddly loud and echoing.

It takes Rafa no time at all to answer, as if he'd been close to the door, waiting. He looks a lot less calm than Roger is trying to be, and that dents Roger's composure somewhat, so that he flushes, and stammers a little when he tries to speak.

"H-hi, Rafa."

"Roger, is good to see you. Come in?"

"Thank you, yes."

The show of politeness is for the benefit of anyone who might be listening in, and it lasts just as long as it takes for Rafa to close the door - as soon as the lock clicks shut, Roger finds himself pressed up against the wall with the full force of Rafa's body. There's nothing gentle about Rafa's hands on his waist, shoving him backwards against the wall almost as if Rafa is testing to make sure that he won't disappear, that he's real and solid and here in Rafa's arms.

"You came," Rafa says, his voice muffled against Roger's shoulder. Roger can feel the faint graze of teeth through the thin material of his t-shirt.

"I always come," says Roger. He twines his hands in Rafa's silky hair, twisting the soft strands around his fingers with maybe just a little more force than is really necessary, but Rafa seems to enjoy it, if his sharp intake of breath and the way he shifts his hips closer against Roger's is anything to judge by.

"You can stay?" Rafa's breath is quick and shallow against Roger's cheek.

"For a while. An hour, maybe two."

Rafa pulls back just far enough that he can meet Roger's eyes. "We make it count, no?"

There are better ways to answer a question like that than with words, and Roger knows them by now. Rafa's mouth is open and ready under his, hot and wet. Roger doesn't think he'll ever be able to get enough of this. The kiss starts off slow and sweet, but it gathers pace. They haven't done this enough to know how to keep passion on a low burn, how to create friction without starting a blaze. Rafa is making low, ragged noises into Roger's mouth, and Roger holds him tightly with the full strength of his arms. They never hold back with each other.

Then Rafa slips cool, clever fingers up underneath Roger's t-shirt, skimming it up over his stomach and chest until they have to break apart, briefly, for Rafa to drag the shirt over his head. It drops then in a soft pile on the floor, forgotten as Rafa leans back in, slanting his mouth over Roger's, framing Roger's face with his two hands. Roger works at Rafa's belt, his hands far from steady now, pulling and shoving roughly to get the buckle undone so that he can snap the button open - here Rafa has to break away from the kiss, panting, to hide his face against Roger's neck - and slip one hand down into Rafa's jeans. Rafa's cock is hard and burning hot against Roger's palm.

"Bed," Rafa gasps. "Please. Now."

They aren't gentle getting there, Roger pushing just as much as Rafa is pulling him, so they end up stumbling, falling together as Rafa's calves hit the edge of the bed. Any other time, it would be funny, the way Rafa lets out a little huff of breath as he tips backwards and they land awkwardly together, all tangled limbs and frantic movement; any other time but this, when they are too caught up in each other to stand outside themselves and recognise the ridiculousness of the situation. Roger is wearing his jeans but no shirt, Rafa still has his t-shirt on but his jeans are tangled around his knees. They have to break apart to strip fully, Rafa pulling the shirt over his head with a smooth, fluid movement that makes the muscles of his stomach flutter.

There's always a moment of awkwardness in the transition from partly-clothed to fully nude. This thing between them is still new enough that the sight of each other's bodies comes as a shock, a thrill. It takes a couple of seconds before they collect themselves to carry on, but they move slower now, with less haste but no less heat. Fingers drag over skin, learning the feel of each other, mapping the hidden places that make the other gasp or shiver or moan. Roger bites into the smooth, sweat-slick skin of Rafa's shoulder, and Rafa cries out.

The pace gathers again. There's a brief struggle to determine who goes on top, neither of them yielding - they never hold back with each other; they never have, not on the tennis court and not here in bed, either - until Rafa does something complicated and clever that involves hooking Roger's legs with his own and shoving up with the whole force of his body, so that Roger is flipped over onto his back, winded as Rafa's weight comes down on top of him, and he gasps raggedly when they press together along the whole length of their bodies.

They shift against each other, searching for the best fit. Rafa thrusts his hips down, hard, his cock rubbing into the cradle of Roger's hips, his fingers pressing hard enough to bruise against Roger's thigh, pulling Roger's leg up a little, and from that Roger knows that Rafa would like to fuck him. He has to close his eyes then, because he suddenly wants more than anything to feel Rafa inside him, the heat and pressure, the shocking sense of fullness. There's no time, though - he's too close, he'd never last through the feel of Rafa's finger's pressing inside; he's barely keeping it together as Rafa starts to thrust against him in earnest, finding a fluid rhythm that presses them both together, the friction so hot and so much and so, so good.

Rafa is panting and groaning against Roger's skin, and his voice is low and rough against Roger's ear, but the words are distinct, and Roger feels them as sharp shocks right through his body; _Mine_ , Rafa is saying, over and over again, _you're mine_. He bites down at the juncture of Roger's neck and shoulder, sucking at the sensitive skin there, claiming him, and Roger comes _hard_ , arching up against Rafa, his whole body alight. Above him he is vaguely aware that Rafa is coming too, he can hear Rafa's ragged cry and feel Rafa's fingers digging hard into his hips, but mostly he can still hear Rafa's words echoing in his ears, _mine, mine, mine_. _Yours_ , his own body is saying, curling into Rafa's as close as he can get, as if he's trying to crawl inside Rafa's skin. Yours.

The come-down is slow, aftershocks chasing across raw nerve-endings with every shift of Rafa's skin against his own. Rafa presses kisses to every bit of Roger he has within reach - face, mouth, neck, chest. The kisses are soft and fumbling, like Rafa's fingers ghosting across his cheekbones and tracing the line of his jaw over and over, clumsy with pleasure. Roger, dazed, presses his face against Rafa's neck, hiding his face there. There are strange, powerful emotions boiling under the surface, underneath the hazy gold afterglow, but this is a simple pleasure, to taste the salt on Rafa's skin, drink in the smell of his body. It's a pleasure he can understand. He rolls them both onto their sides and wraps his arms around Rafa's warm, beautiful body and holds on, glad for the solidity of Rafa's body, the resistance of flesh and muscle under his hands.

Rafa's fingers are carding through his hair, tugging a little on the damp curls at the nape of Roger's neck. He has surprisingly gentle fingers, for a man with such big, calloused hands. His fingertips drag just a little over the skin of Roger's neck, raising the delicate hairs there. Rafa's pulse is against Roger's cheek, slowing gently to a steady rhythm. Roger tilts his head a tiny bit and closes his mouth over the pulse-point. There's a complicated joy in having Rafa's life under his lips like this, like almost everything with Rafa is complicated; desire and guilt and the strange, possessive longing that Rafa inspires in him. He's never been a jealous or a possessive man, and the urge to bite down on Rafa's neck, to leave the mark of his teeth on the soft skin for all the world to see - it confuses him, frightens him a little. He doesn't know if this is who he really is, or if this thing with Rafa is changing him, making him something different - something less or something more? - than he knows himself to be.

He allows himself one gentle brush of teeth against Rafa's neck, and Rafa moans against his temple, tightens his hold on Roger's hip and tugs a little harder on Roger's hair. Roger wonders whether Rafa feels this same conflict, the sensation of being caught between the twin desires to claim and be claimed. He wonders if Rafa wants to tighten his hold on Roger's skin to the point of bruising, to see the purpling imprints of his fingers flush against Roger's skin. Roger wonders if he would mind if Rafa did. He doesn't know. And he doesn't know how that should make him feel, either.

So they simply lie there, wrapped tightly up in each other, breathing in time together. So rare is the opportunity to linger, to savour the feel of each other, that they are unwilling to squander the moment on talk. Every breath presses them closer together, and the only movemement is the slow brush of Rafa's fingers through Roger's hair. Roger keeps his face tucked against Rafa's shoulder. He can't keep an eye on the time this way, but he trusts Rafa not to endanger them by lingering too long.

Eventually, Rafa sighs, his breath hot against Roger's skin, and stills his fingers against Roger's neck. "Is getting late," he murmurs, voice low and suffused with regret.

"Mmm," Roger agrees. He ghosts the fingertips of one hand a little way down Rafa's spine, enjoying Rafa's responding shiver.

"Roger," Rafa says. "They will wonder where you are."

"Alright." Roger shifts in the circle of Rafa's arms, pulling away from Rafa's neck after placing one final kiss against the pulse-point. Raising himself up, he looks into Rafa's face. Rafa is so beautiful, so much more beautiful up close even than he is from a distance. Far away, the strongly-wrought contours of his face can seem harsh, the same way as the developed musculature of his body looks almost brutal sometimes. But up close the solidity of those lines, the strength of those muscles, only serve to highlight the various unexpected softnesses: the tenderness in his eyes, the shock of the curves of his body under Roger's hands. That's Rafa: the jumbled contradictions of hard and soft, fierce and gentle, forceful and yielding. Roger can look at Rafa sometimes, at the complicated, captivating man in his arms, and wonder how he ever thought of him as being just that simple Mallorcan boy who played incredible tennis and stumbled through stilted conversations with his broken English in the locker-room afterwards. Maybe that's where the unexpected selfishness originates, in the desire to keep this unexpected Rafa all to himself.

"I wish you could stay," Rafa says. He still has his hand tight on Roger's hip, as though he'd like to keep Roger right where he is with the force of his grip.

"I wish I could stay." It's true. But there's Mirka to consider, waiting patiently for him back at their hotel.

"One day maybe you stay," Rafa says. He smiles softly, a little wistfully. "Maybe stay for good, no?"

"Rafa -"

"Shh." Rafa kisses Roger then, a gentle brush of lips. "Stupid, I know."

"Not stupid," Roger says. He swipes a thumb across Rafa's full, swollen lower lip. "Just -"

"Impossible," Rafa finishes. "I know."

"If I could stay -"

"I know. I know. Yes."

So Roger kisses him, long and deep. He puts as much of himself into the kiss as he can, licking into Rafa's mouth, winding his arms tightly around Rafa, pressing as close as he can get. This is as much promise as he can make, with a kiss that says _this is yours, this part of me, here and now_. Perhaps one day Rafa will be right, and there'll be time for more than a hurried hour in a hotel room, maybe he'll be able to stay here in Rafa's bed and in Rafa's arms for good. Today is not that day, but here in this kiss, in this bed, in this hotel room closed off from the rest of the world, they belong to one another for a little while longer. Rafa's mouth is on his, and his body is warm and solid under Roger's hands, and it's enough, almost.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here](http://aramleys-words.livejournal.com/1773.html).


End file.
